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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23485186">Flowers</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/'>Anonymous</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>BioShock Infinite</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M, Incest, Sex Pollen</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 08:35:25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,000</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23485186</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>An incident in a garden.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Booker DeWitt/Elizabeth</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>35</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Anonymous, Robot Rainbow 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Flowers</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/cricket_aria/gifts">cricket_aria</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>"Flower" is in fact one of the colors -- a light slate blue, from <a href="https://aiweirdness.com/post/160776374467/new-paint-colors-invented-by-neural-network">this post</a>.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The sun passes directly behind Elizabeth in her pose astride him, shading her face and making a halo of her unbound hair. Booker is seized for a moment between desire and terror—there’s something uncanny in the shape of her shoulders, the glint of her eyes even in shadow—but he’s released as she leans down to kiss him. </p><p>She tastes like blood and stale candy, with a hint of something headier: rich and cloying, like whiskey without the bite, yet also floral, delicate. The taste thickens when she shoves her tongue in his mouth. She’s moving against him now, grinding down frantically as she paws his arms and chest. </p><p>His hands go to steady her and end up grabbing her, holding her in place while he ruts. She gasps against his lips in a way that makes him wish they were naked, so he could be fully buried inside her. His mind, boiling in lust, supplies an image of their bodies locked in congress. </p><p>That thought snaps him out of it. He’s aware of the grass and hard soil under his back (Lutece particles below), the dew and sweat soaking through his dirty clothes, and a fundamental <em> wrongness </em>to whatever is happening between him and Elizabeth. Who is still kissing him. Damn it.</p><p>“Shouldn’t we talk about this first?” he asks, once he’s managed to get her to break away for two seconds.</p><p>“No,” says Elizabeth. </p><p>“I thought we weren’t going to—”</p><p>“<em>No,</em>” and she’s on him again, sloppy and desperate. He lets her do what she wants until she realizes that he isn’t reciprocating. Then she sits back—in the grass, which he appreciates, since thinking is a lot harder when she’s on top of him—and pouts. </p><p>“We have to think,” he says, getting up. She follows. “What were we doing before this?”</p><p>“Does it matter?” </p><p>“Elizabeth.”</p><p>“Booker.” She mimics his chiding tone, rolls her eyes and switches to a serious voice. “I remember that we broke into a park looking for supplies. Then we got lost and found this garden. Then,” she looks to the side, “we saw those flowers.”</p><p>“Those ones?” Squinting, Booker follows her gaze to a high trellis of unassuming blue blossoms. Petals litter the lawn. A breeze wafts the heady scent he’d noticed earlier.</p><p>“Yes. We saw the flowers, and something happened.” One of her hands has moved to her clothed breast, stroking lightly, as if she’s unaware of the movement. He wants to rip her corset off and—</p><p>“There’s something off about those flowers.”</p><p>“I agree.” She’s shifting, rubbing her knees together. “I feel strange. Do you?”</p><p>“Yes.” He looks around, trying to gauge escape routes. “I think that streetlamp might hold my weight. I’ll get up there and try to see the exit.”</p><p>“Would you do me a favor?”</p><p>“Sure, but let’s get out of here first. I don’t want to hang around those flowers more than we already have.”</p><p>“I can’t wait that long.” The breathless edge to her voice makes his stomach lurch.</p><p>“Elizabeth—”</p><p>“Please.” Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes uncomfortably bright. He knows what she’s going to say; nevertheless, he closes his eyes while she says it. “I know what we decided before, but I need this. I need you to touch me.”</p><p>“There’s got to be another way.”</p><p>“It’s too late. We both know it. Don’t you want to, just once?” </p><p>“That isn’t a fair question. Come on, those creepy scientists are probably lurking somewhere nearby. We’ll get them to give us the antidote.”</p><p>“Booker, please. It hurts.” She screws up her face, and he realizes that the brightness in her eyes is unshed tears.</p><p>He moves to comfort her, taking her hand. “Don’t cry. We’ll get through this.”</p><p>She pulls his arm around her shoulder. So close together, it’s impossible to tell her natural scent from that of the flowers. “Do you even want me, or do you just pity me?”</p><p>Booker never learns his lesson. “Hey, what did I say about unfair questions?”</p><p>When she kisses him this time, she’s careful, almost shy. It somehow feels less proper to kiss slowly, to cup her face and draw her even closer. He helps her shrug off her jacket, toss it aside. She shudders and hides her face in his shoulder when he kisses the newly revealed skin beneath her jaw. </p><p>He tries to keep his touches gentle and undemanding, tries to keep his eyes from wandering below her collarbone. But the fragrance of those flowers burns ever stronger in his nose, and before he knows it he’s hauling her up, clutching and groping at her, biting her neck till she cries out.</p><p>“Sorry,” he says, pulling away in a panic, but she pushes his head back down and doesn’t let up until he bites her again.</p><p>The breeze is sweet and light. In some distant section of the park, a flock of birds is making a racket. There’s a twinge in Booker’s leg that means a storm is coming, probably in late afternoon. He catalogs these details without judgment. The majority of his focus has narrowed to Elizabeth: her taste and smell, the noises she’s making, the feel of her body. </p><p>The corset comes off. Her skin is hot. He has the vague idea they ought to be doing this on a bed.</p><p>“Help me with your clothes,” she says, and he complies.</p><p>Is there anything he can deny her now? He is aware, on some level, that he’s made a choice he can’t take back; he is aware on a deeper level that no other choices were available to him. He lets her push him onto his back and straddle him again. </p><p>The act they are about to initiate will be her first. There’s no doubt that she deserves better. Booker can’t devote too much guilt to the injustice, overwhelmed as he is by sensation, lost. The garden’s borrowed earth is warm and damp. Elizabeth, looming over him, eclipses the sun once more.</p>
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